Origins
by ira-gula-superbia
Summary: Zeke. 'And a town, which had never given a thought to nuclear explosions beyond their involvement in World War II, suddenly finds itself bearing witness to its second mushroom cloud in a matter of minutes. '
1. The Vulture and Cash - Part I

**The Vulture and Cash**

Alondra Arnetti and Porter Sloane were both born into crime, both coming from a family that had been on the opposite side of the law for the better part of the last century.

That's about where the similarities ended.

Alondra was royalty, her father the head of the Arnetti Mafia family while her mother ruled the cartels in most of South America. She was the princess of a criminal empire that spanned a third of the United States and descended even further to the south. By the time she was seven, she had witnessed her first execution and she'd started carrying a pistol in middle school. A pair of extortionists once thought that the frail young girl would provide perfect prey and they could retire after getting the ransom. Several hours after the kidnapping, Alondra's parents received a call not for a demand of money, but of their daughter calmly telling them that she was fine over the sounds of sobbing and fading pleas for mercy. Her vicious sadistic streak was barely contained behind a porcelain mask of aloof eyes and a slim smile, but she kept her raging emotions in check. _Nonna_ Carla made no secret that the eldest child her son had produced was her favorite, and she reveled in the love lavished upon her.

Porter was trash. His dad was a thief, conman, mugger, drug-dealer, and just about whatever else he could be before he was tossed into prison once again. His mother was a negligent woman who grew tired of her husband's empty promises before leaving with another man who could satisfy her – abandoning Porter. Somewhere out there, he was fairly certain that he had some half-siblings but he never really considered such thoughts for long. He was more concerned with making sure that any of his state-appointed skeeves didn't touch him, that his foster siblings didn't touch what was his, and that, at the end of the day, his belly was full. When his father was out of jail, he stayed with him in relative peace until the elder man was shipped upstream again for his latest infraction. Even behind bars, the elder Sloane ensured that a Word-of-the-Day calendar found its way under whatever ugly plastic facsimile of a tree stood in Porter's current living room for every Christmas Day. For the most part, the youth prowled the streets, mastering the art of smash and grab on whatever shop presented itself and practicing extortion on his classmates, at least when he deigned to attend school.

By any account, the pair should probably have never crossed paths. Alondra was destined to rule over a kingdom that had been passed down through her family for generations. Porter's fate lay, at best, as a mediocre gun-for-hire and, at worst, dead in some gutter with a needle in his arm or a bullet in his head. He should never have ended up as much as a blip on Alondra's radar. Unfortunately for an all too large percentage of the population, he became so much more than just a blip to her.

Family dinner was a regular event in the Arnetti household as they all gathered about the long solid oak table, bought with money soaked in blood. Carlo Arnetti sat at the head of the table, broad shouldered and solidly built with a face that looked like an amateur mason had carved from granite. Marcia Arnetti, _La Reina_ to her legions, sat at his side, her dark complexion and darker soul juxtaposed to the pure white dress she wore. At Carlo's other side, his mother and former head of the Arnetti family demanded the seat where she picked at her dinner, grousing about everything that came to mind in the language of her homeland. Alondra claimed the place next to her, surreptitiously trying to acquire the glass of golden champagne while across from her, her little brother Joseph set up a catapult with his silverware, arming it with unwanted broccoli and aiming at his elder sister. Gina diligently ate her dinner, trying to ignore the imposing men who stood at the door, heavy firearms evident under their jackets, and pretend that her family was normal. The twins sat next to each, inseparable but refusing to cease their squabbling.

"Alondra," Carlo suddenly boomed, interrupting his mother's tirade and prompting his eldest daughter to quickly draw her outstretched arm away from the drink. Hazel eyes focused upon her father's face and she offered what she hoped was an innocent smile as he continued, "How many times have I told you to stay out of my office?"

"I wasn't in your office, _papi_."

He arched a thick brow at her protest, "_Piccolo_, you were messing with my papers. I've asked you before not to do that."

Her eyes fell but were defiant as she grumbled, "But I can help. I'm already in high school and I'm ready to start learning. _La famiglia d'affari_. Please, _papi-_"

"Alondra, I've told you before. You are too young. Too rash. You will focus on your studies for now," he declared, his tone clear that the discussion was over but Alondra refused to accept that.

"I am meant for far more than listening to _esas perras estupidas_ whine about their clothes, and their hair, and 'oh! That boy's cute. Oh gosh, yeah, isn't he just yummy?' It makes me want to rip my hair out!" she spat.

"That is normal, _chica_. Try joining a sport or something," Marcia suggested evenly.

Alondra scoffed and flopped back in her seat, crossing her arms over her budding chest, "I'm fairly certain there are better uses of my time then to be chasing around a ball with a bunch of hormonally imbalanced _perras_."

"Enough with the language," her father growled. "And stop your grumbling or you won't be touching any of the business for decades."

She abruptly rocketed up from her chair, sending it toppling over as she clenched her fists and roared, "Stop treating me like a child!"

Storming from the room as she seethed under her breath, her father slammed down his cutlery and prepared to go after her when a withered hand with a steel grip wrapped about his wrist and forced him to return to his seat.

"_Lasciala andare, Carlo. La ragazza ha bisogno del suo spazio,_" commanded the Arnetti crone, her voice forceful and driving Carlo to settle back into his seat though his expression was disgruntled.

"_Madre,_" he rumbled, "_Quel bambino e troppo selvaggio. Ha bisogno di riposare._"

"Hush," she cut at the red steak on her plate that pooled with its crimson juices. "_La cara e solo vizioso . . ._"

She bit into the piece, lifting a napkin to dab at the juices that dribbled from the corner of her mouth and gave a carnivorous smile, "_Proprio come la sua cara vecchia nonna._"

* * *

Alondra's foul mood polluted the car, effectively cutting off any words the enforcer she had dragged away to drive the vehicle might have offered. On her command, they were driving through the streets of the city Alondra was sure that she would one day rule, no particular destination in mind. The dark of the moonless night was complimented by a light but steady drizzle that dampened all caught in it to the bone. It was a miserable evening and the Mafia princess found that it fit her mood perfectly as she glared at the passerbys on her street, the drug dealers and prostitutes who pandered their services, demonstrating a dedication to their jobs that rivaled that of the postal service's oath.

When her stomach heaved with a discontented growl, furious at her for abandoning dinner only a quarter of the way through the meal, she tried to ignore it. However, it only grew louder and pangs struck, causing her to grimace and lift her chin from her hand, turning her gaze towards the front of the vehicle and barking at the driver, "Stop at the next store you see."

"I know a few good restaurants around here if you want, miss," he offered, glancing in the rearview mirror.

"I don't need a lot. _Papi_ says I eat like a _uccello_," she gave a small smile before remembering that she was mad at her father and scowling again, setting her chin in her palm to glare out the window once again. Blowing out a heavy breath, the man scanned the sides of the road for stores and gave a soft exclamation upon spotting the glowing lights of a store. He turned into the lonely parking lot and rolled to a smooth stop in front of the door. Alondra stepped out and stalked to the entrance, paying no heed to the rough teenager who lounged against the corner wall, spinning a quarter between his fingers.

Porter, 'Cash' to anybody who liked keeping their teeth in their mouth, gnawed on his busted lip as he watched the pale, slender girl in the nice clothes that definitely did not belong in his part of town stroll into the store he'd been casing as though she owned the place. His father was out of prison again and they were celebrating the likely brief freedom with a round, preferably several, of cigarettes, alcohol, and whatever else Cash could manage to grab. It was their custom and he considered heading to another store as the rough coin danced between his blunt fingers. Wincing as his teeth brushed over the scab on his lip, he went over the mental map of stores with lax security systems in his head when he heard the chime and saw the slender girl exit with a bag in hand. Sticking to the shadow where the man behind the counter couldn't see him, he slipped his quarter in his jacket's pocket and hissed, "Yo, pulchritude!"

She glanced over at him in surprise and her eyes narrowed dangerously as she said, "What did you call me, _perdedor_?"

With a groan, he rolled his blue eyes and hurriedly explained, "Pulchritude. Noun. Physical comeliness. Anyway, is that guy's back turned?"

Looking through the glass door for a second, she nodded, "Yeah, he's organizing the cigarettes and stuff."

"Thanks," he muttered as he rushed forward to seize the opportunity. Just before he opened the door, the girl blinked and noted his armament.

"You have a brick."

"I'mma magician. Gonna turn it into cash," he smirked before jerking the door open and dashing inside. Alondra merely shrugged before heading to the car and sliding into the leathered back seat, not paying any attention to the bulky youth who bounded over the counter to the startled worker within the store. Her seatbelt clicked into place and she reached into the bag for the beef jerky she had grabbed as Cash raised the brick again to bring down on the man's head, neither of them thinking anymore of the chance meeting.

* * *

**These our are children, our characters, in comics we are working on publishing. This is a series of origin stories for the different characters. Alondra uses a portmaneteau of English, Italian, and Spanish that I decided to leave untranslated, along with the comments of her family members. Please, enjoy and review.**


	2. The Vulture and Cash - Part II

**7 Years Later**

"Chuck, get your corpulent ass out of my pop's chair, or I'll give you a whole new orifice to breathe through," Cash threw out the threat as casually as he would off any greeting, sweeping into the cluttered living room.

Charles 'Chuck' Abnerkroft, Cash's friend, partner-in-crime, and parasite, was a large man with a heavy, jutting brow over gleaming, beetle black eyes. Of tree trunk thick limbs with a prominent under bite and lumpy gut, he looked like a remnant of Cro-Magnon era. His nails were poorly trim and yellowed while his oily hair was already starting to thin despite his relative youth. He had managed to stuff his feet into large, mud caked worker's boots and his jeans and flannel shirt were equally grungy. Staring up at the notably more clean cut but still rough Cash, Chuck scrunched his tiny eyes and rumbled, "Dude, ain't nobody gonna understand what'cha saying if youse keep using those big words."

Cold blue eyes rolled towards the ceiling before zeroing back in on the lifelong thug and he answered, "Right. Forgot that you beat up that kid to do your vocab sheets. You never actually learned it. Now, get the Hell out of pop's chair."

Giving no chance for him to respond, Cash set his own boot against the arm rest and grunted as he kicked over the patched up piece of furniture that had been around longer than he had. Its cushions had been stuffed numerous times as the senior Sloane hid money, drugs, guns, Christmas presents, and anything else he thought he might lose inside it. Some springs were starting to poke through the worn fabric, and it no longer reclined without a serious struggle. Regardless, it had been the throne of Cash's father for the past twenty-one years and it was going to stay that way until his dying day. He would make sure of that.

Chuck sputtered indignantly as he spilled from the chair that Cash righted tenderly before giving the resilient man a sharp kick in his considerable gut. He then reached down to help the bulky man to his feet, clapping him on the shoulder and warning, "I ever catch you in pop's chair again, Chuckie boy, and I'll chop off your own oversized arm and beat you to death with it. You got it?"

"Try it, Cash," he grinned, showing a mouthful of foul, miscolored teeth, "And I'll give youse a one-two that'll have you think Earth's spinning backwards for a week."

"Whatever," he scoffed and gave his friend a rough shove who merely guffawed. Moving into the kitchen, Cash growled at the mess of empty pizza boxes, fast food bags, and crumpled beer cans but when that didn't incite them into moving, he delivered savage kicks to everything, including a largely innocent rat, in the way as he waded towards the fridge. Ripping open the door, mostly to shove aside the refuse that had piled up in front of it, he whistled to himself as he studied the contents of the fridge before frowning.

"Chuck!" he bellowed.

"Thanks for dinner, Cash. I gotta head to the gym. Paulie says I can't compete in the next match if I miss 'nother practice," called the roughhewn man, his words followed by the slamming of the front door.

Snarling as he turned away from the fridge empty of any safely edible food and smashed the door shut, he stormed from the kitchen and halted in the living room, considering going after his friend before sighing. After spending a few more minutes scouring for something to abate the groans of his stomach, Cash pulled the handgun from his waistband, checking the magazine and, with the magazine still removed, performed a quick functions check. Content with his firearm, he slipped it back into place and ensured it was hidden by his bulky jacket. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a battered cellphone and made a call. He waited a minute before the other end picked up.

"Rodge. Salutations. It's Cash. Hey, I was wondering . . . were you serious about paying to have that other dealer . . . extricated from the business? . . . It means removed . . . Yes, as in kill. Yeah? How's the payout? . . . So long as it's in cash, we have a deal . . ."

* * *

Harmon Graves was a fixer. The Arnetti's had given him the title of consigliore, but he knew who and what he was. It was the same job from the chop shops of his youth or race tracks or any other part of the business. When something was broken or wrong, it was up to the sharp-faced man to step in and correct the issues, remove unnecessary components or push others into place. He knew every aspect business, had climbed the hierarchy from its bottommost rung to only several short of the top. This earned him the respect and admiration of the Mafia soldiers while his efficiency and loyalty ensured that his bosses kept him around. With the spread of the family, not everybody knew their boss by face, but everybody knew the hawk-eyed, grizzled Graves who moved amongst with a vigor that belied the silver of his hair and beard.

He stood in the kitchen of the Arnetti mansion, vigorously scrubbing a simple golden band with a pristine cloth when Alondra entered, back home for spring break. Startlingly pale for her heritage, she was a slender, almost ethereal, beauty who maintained a small, secretive smile, eternally amused by some private joke. She favored dark, elegant dresses that swept to the floor and flowed against her smooth, alabaster skin, accompanied by a faux fur collar that she preened and petted absentmindedly. The small smile bloomed at the sight of the older man.

"_Senor_ Graves. _Nonna_ said that you were tending to some errands."

"Was," he answered shortly as he twisted his only piece of jewelry back onto his ring finger where he inspected it before nodding in satisfaction. Clasping his hands behind his back, he turned to Alondra and inquired, "Miss Alondra. How's college?"

She heaved a labored sigh as she rifled through the liquor cabinet, "Stressful. The tests feel endless, everybody's an arrogant prick. I cannot tell you how many times I've nearly taken a scalpel to one of the _cabrons_ while we've been practicing on cadavers."

"Your fortitude is greatly appreciated," he lauded her to which she laughed before tossing the amber liquid down her throat. She gave another giggle.

"Mind you, I'd be doing some of them a favor by remodeling."

"Please don't. Your siblings create enough problems for me to fix. I honestly don't need more."

"Gina's causing trouble?" she arched a brow in surprise before knocking back another glass.

"Your siblings _excluding_ Gina," he corrected himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a small, tired shake of his head, "I've been shot, stabbed, poisoned, blown up, and lit on fire. But nothing has made me want to retire more than the messes those two make."

"Annoying little brats, aren't they?" she chuckled, "_Papi_ should've tied them in a sack and tossed them in the river when they were still squalling _bebes_."

"I plead the Fifth," he grumbled, studying her objectively as she filled her small, squat glass yet again. She downed it immediately and was reaching for the large bottle before she had even set her glass down. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter, watching the process repeat once more before advising, "Maybe you should slow down there. You're gonna make yourself sick."

"I'm fine," she waved off his concern and then smiled, "And getting better by the glass."

"I'm sure. I'm also sure you'll be saying the opposite tomorrow morning."

"Don't treat me like a child," she snapped, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "I know the consequences to my actions."

"Sweetheart, I bounced you on my knee before you could even walk. You had a better attitude then, and if you don't fix it, I doubt you'll ever take control of the family," he warned her.

"I don't think I plan to anymore," she whispered, her stare intent upon her reflection in her draught, the glass clasped in both her hands.

He blinked in surprise, "What're you talking about? Ever since you could talk, it's been all we could do to get you to shut up about it for a minute."

"I know," she murmured before taking a deep breath and gulping down the drink. The dense bottom of the glass clinked against the counter and she leaned her head back to stare at the ceiling. She breathed out a long sigh and began, "College is the first time I've ever really been away from everybody. It's given me space to . . . think. My entire life, I've taken everything provided by the family for granted. We all do. It's simple. But I want something more than that."

"I'm not following."

"I don't just want to have the reins handed over to me. It's too . . . easy."

"Still pretty much lost."

She ran her hands through her raven black hair, twisting her fingers in it as she thought about her answer for a moment before looking to Graves who stood eternally stoic. Giving him a slight smile, she declared, "I'm going start my own business. Without the family."

* * *

**So they didn't meet up in this chapter, but this was important moments in their lives. Its these decisions that set them on the tracks for a collision course.**

**Again, these characters are all ours. Nobody take them without permission. Not that there's enough people reading this to worry about that for.**

**Please review!**


	3. The Vulture and Cash - Part III

**Five Years Later**

Cash gasped for breath, sweat beading on his skin as he fell to his knees in the dark, overflowing alley. As his heartbeat escalated, he ground his teeth together and powerful fingers curled into a fist that slammed into the pavement, breaking skin. Blood mingled with sweat on his busted knuckles but the pain was negligible to the wild firing of the rest of his neurons. Three years ago, he had escaped the electric chair by accepting a shadowy man's offer to undergo even more questionable experimentation. For over two years, he lived in a world that made prison look comfortable where he was dragged from his cell each day to be poked, prodded, and subjected to everything from electrical shocks to near drowning without any notable results. And then, with no explanation, they had thrown him into the ominously named 'Recycling Pens.' Lacking any desire to witness exactly what transpired in this 'recycling,' he had managed to escape with the assistance of another subject who he'd since lost. Now pain worse than anything they had ever done to him sought to claim him in some dark alley where his corpse would be likely found by some bum who would take what he had fought to collect since his freedom.

Growling through clenched teeth, he struggled to his feet and staggered towards the street, each step sending more pain arcing through the system. His body was failing him. It was starting to shut down, piece by piece. The last doctor, before he'd put the terrified man's face through his x-ray screen, had told him that he had about a week before vital organs began to shut down. He had two days left and there was no way he was getting on any national waiting list. Trawling his old contacts, those who hadn't testified against him or weren't in prison themselves had led him to Detroit. A new player had come to the carcass of the dying city, one who ran a certain 'health care' system for those who weren't used to playing by the rules.

He made it to the street where he paused, leaning against a light post. The light above him intensified, a sharp whine emitting from the bulb before it burst, sprinkling him with a tiny shower of glass and drawing the darkness about him. Fighting to stand straight again, he proceeded down the street, pondering his quandary. None of his old business contacts had a clear idea on how to contact the grisly doctor nor could they offer him a name. What they could tell him was that the services weren't cheap and the money he had garnered with his old school smash and grab tactics, he was still too weak to get back into the hitman business, wouldn't cover a kidney. It was at times like these he regretted not getting into a higher return line of work, such as credit card scams and fraud or even cons.

The glaring high beams of a car caught his own eye and he winced, but before he could even bring a hand up to ward off the too-bright lances of light, they were abruptly blackened. Tires screeched as the driver threw on the breaks, and Cash gave a slight chuckle, one that he was punished for by another searing bolt of pain. Up ahead, an ATM glowed stalwartly into the night and as he neared it, he drove shaking fingers into his jacket's pocket for the wallet he had picked up. Flicking it open and ignoring the ID of the thin-nosed business man still in it, he selected one of the credit cards and tried to steady his hand enough to insert the card into the slot.

However, as his hand drew near, the screen went berserk, flashing and then going black before meaningless pieces of letters flashed across it then went solid green. It whirred and then vomited money at his feet, delivering a small fortune in twenty dollar bills that he quickly collected, stuffing them into his pockets before vacating the area. Some of the crumpled greens toppled from his pocket but he shouldered on, in too much pain to stop and gather them again. Cerulean eyes surveyed the buildings to either side, searching for the next waystation on his journey. Spying a rather seedy looking bar that lingered on, he stumbled across the street and pushed through the door. A few of the patrons bothered giving him a look, most of them too far gone to see anything beyond that glass or bottle in front of them.

Taking a moment to collect himself and consider his options, he hobbled to the counter, towards a stony-faced man who still retained most of his faculties, only slowly downing a dark bottle. Collapsing into the stool, Cash took an instant to relax, letting one arm dangle as the other rested on the counter and he curled forward. Finally his eyes flickered towards the man next to him and Cash rasped, "Salutations."

The stranger blinked, "What's that?"

"Salutation. Noun. An expression of greeting, goodwill, or courtesy by word, gesture, or ceremony."

Storm grey eyes grew even more unfriendly and the lonely drinker snapped, "Look, pal, whatever you're selling, I'm not buying. Go dupe the drunkies."

"I require the services of a doctor."

"Hospital's further down the road. Now, if you're gonna bother me any further, it's not a doc you're gonna need. It's an undertaker."

The threat left Cash silent, his eyes lowering from the man's face who returned to his drinking. When the intruder on his solitude did not vanish, the man gave a belabored sigh and set the bottle down, dropping his hand from it. There was a sudden blur of motion and the man had an instant to stare at the wicked knife that stabbed through his hand and into the counter of the bar before the pain reached his brain. As he opened his mouth to scream, a large hand seized the back of his head and pushed forward, ramming his brow against the counter. Dazed, he could only fall as his stool was kicked out from underneath him, and he gave a yelp when the knife didn't release his hand, keeping it pinned there as he dangled from it. His left hand fumbled for the pistol on his chest holster, but the blunt fingers beat him to it, plucking the heavy firearm from its cradle, encouraging the other patrons and few employees not to intercede.

He whined as he stared past the dark barrel to icy cerulean eyes as Cash mimed concern, "Gracious, friend. It would appear that you are in dire need of a chirurgeon yourself. Now, where might we avail ourselves to one's services? . . . Or do you still favor the mortician?"

"I-I-I-I kn-know . . . I know w-where we c-c-can go," the man blubbered.

Cash grinned viciously through the pain.

"I figured as much. Still, time is of the essence. So how about a little incentive?"

There was the thundering roar as the gun spat out a round followed by a brief serenity.

Then came the howl of pain.

* * *

Alondra hummed a tune that her mother had used to sing to her, in the earliest days of her childhood, as she watched the crimson fluid flow from the expensive bottle to the squat, ornate glass. Centimeters from the brim, she righted the bottle, catching a drop that ran along its neck. She suckled the red stain from her finger as she secured the cork and then placed the bottle amongst its brethren on the extensive wine rack. Finely built and stocked with bottles whose worth would make most blanch, it was out of place in the derelict building she had decided to set up shop. Her exclusive glasses that accompanied them were likewise curiously out of place in the trash-strewn foyer of the once grand hotel. However, the room it provided her with, particularly after she had cleared out the squatters with extreme prejudice, more than made up for its lack of cleanliness.

Taking a deep swig of the thick, scarlet draught, she sighed contentedly as she heard steady footfalls on the stairs and glanced up to see a handsome, dark-skinned man attired in doctor's scrubs. She raised her glass in greeting to the bald man and gave a smile.

"Anything interesting tonight, Dr. Sanders?"

"You could say that, Miss Arnetti," he returned, his voice deep and silken. "We've got a subject that you might want to take a look at."

"Oh? Anybody I know?"

"Doubt it. He's new to town. I'm fairly certain he capped a guy in the stomach so that the sap would lead him to us."

"Oooh," she purred. "_Muy interesante, de hecho_."

He smirked, "Wait till you get a look at this guy."

"_Por favor_," she held out her glass, gesturing towards the stairs, "Lead on."

Minutes later, Alondra stood in one of the many suite-turned-operating-room, glass in hand as the doctor prepped himself. They stood behind a sectioned off part of the room, what had once been the bathroom, and the mob princess stared through the window that had replaced a large portion of the wall at the thickly built man who filled the operating table. One arm was crossed below her breasts; hand tucked beneath her other arm, a slender finger stroking the side of her cup as she considered the panting man who still mustered glares potent enough to encourage the attendants, none unfamiliar with society's seedy underbelly, to give him a wide berth. Behind her, Sanders washed his hands in the sink as he fed her details.

"It's a fascinating case. For yet unknown reasons, the vast majority of his organs seem to be shutting down – almost everything with the exception of his brain. He's B+, and we managed to scrounge a few organs that'll work, but I even with all my skill, it'll be a miracle if he pulls through."

"Does _teppista_ have a name?"

"Mumbled 'Cash' or some other silly street name. Though he might've been talking about his payment method."

She glanced at the messy bills that littered the table in front of her, extending her arm to pick through them before frowning, "You said most of his organs are failing?"

"Yes, I-"

"He's short. This will cover a liver. At best."

Alondra's eyes flashed dangerously as she rounded upon her cohort who held his hands aloft as they dried. He winced at her anger and pleaded, "Yeah, but see, I was thinking that if I pull this off, it'll prove what I'd been telling those old fossils for years. I-"

"What the fuck is taking you retards so goddamned long!"

The roar from the operating room was punctuated by a shriek of metal and the buzz of electricity and the pair whirled to see one of the devices their patient was hooked up to transform into some sort of claw that ripped the throat out of an unfortunate assistant who had dredged up enough bravery to step next to the bed. Eyes wide in terror, she clutched at the mess of rapidly emptying veins and arteries that used to run along her esophagus as she crumpled to the floor. Restrained on the table, the massive man arched as pain seized him once again. His mouth opened and he unleashed another roar, one that he was accompanied by the growing whine of the machines around him and the intensifying of the lights overhead. Sanders stared, mouth agape behind his surgical mask.

"My God . . ."

"I suggest you sedate that patient of yours, _medico_," advised his employer, a new gleam growing in her eyes as she gave a hungry smile. "Oh, and try not to slip on the mess. I don't think he's going to give us enough time to clean it."

* * *

He woke slowly, feeling far better rested then he had for months, and appreciatively. Both for the lack of pain possessing him, and the view of the tight rear coated in a slim dark dress that swept to the floor. Curling his fingers as his senses continued to filter in, he closed his eyes for a moment and sighed, "Callipygian exquisiteness."

"Calli-what?"

He peered up at the pale woman with arched cheekbones, dark hair, and haughty beauty who stared down at him and he defined, "Callipygian. Adjective. Having shapely buttocks."

She scoffed, "You're a _curiosa_, _signore_. You look like a _teppista_ but talk like a dictionary."

"An integral part of my charm," he murmured.

"_Si?_ Well, _Signore_ . . . Cash, is it? We regret to inform you that you were _corto_. Short."

"What?" His brow furrowed. For a second, he thought he saw a small pink tongue lick across the ruby colored lips as her hazel eyes met his still blurred gaze, but he passed it off as aftereffects of whatever they had put him on.

"Your funds were insufficient. _Sin embargo_, I have come up with a solution to this . . . _pequeno problema_."

"You know, people might not be able to comprehend about half of the shit a say, but at least I speak English," he grumbled, his mood quickly souring.

"_Si_. But then again, you're the one with the failing organs and short on your own namesake. So, _Signore_ Cash . . . how would you like a job?"

* * *

**And now things start to pick up. We hope my scant few readers enjoyed this. There's probably going to be about two more chapters of The Vulture and Cash, and then we start a new Origins story.**

**As we keep saying, these are our characters. Please do not use them without permission.**

**Also, please review!**


	4. The Vulture and Cash - Part IV

**Two and a Half Years Later**

* * *

Dante Jiminez had grown up in Detroit, had watched the city stumble and nearly perish before the renewal projects had breathed in new life – and brought him all new business. For years, he had run the city's largest drug racket, muscling out any who had dared to intrude on his profit margin. He ran his gang with all the efficiency and protocol of a military unit, and ensured that they got their fair share, keeping them happy and on his side. Now, in the lofty penthouse of his apartment, blessed with glass walls that gave full view of the reviving city, it was his turn to have fun. Reclined in his Jacuzzi, he smiled at the two women in near negligible bikinis slid into the frothing water, one carrying wine flutes and the other carrying a full bottle.

"Good evening, ladies," he smiled smoothly as they pressed against him. Before the bottle could be opened, there was a sudden clatter and Dante's face turned ugly as he barked, "Tiny! I told you to keep it down!"

There was a thud and then the misleadingly named 'Tiny' slid across the floor in the separate room, visible through the large open doorway. Dante shot to his feet as heels clacked against the pristine marble of his abode and a slender woman sauntered into view. A navy blue dress with a slight sheen to it flowed down her supple form while a fur collar surrounded her neck. Playing across her alluring face was a small smile, somewhere between teasing and cruel. Rounding the corner shortly after her was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a canvas jacket with a cloth hood and tough cargo pants. Black combat boots adorned his feet and crashed against the floor as he advanced like in incoming storm front, his face haggard and scarred.

"_Por favor, Signore_, sit, sit," the woman urged.

"Who the Hell are you? What'd you do to Tiny?" he demanded, ignoring her request.

"Oh, _mi perdoni_," she halted at the bottom of the steps leading to Jacuzzi, flashing a smile devoid of apology, "How could I forget the introductions? I am Alondra Arnetti and _mio caro amico_ is . . . well, suffice it to say, he likes the name 'Cash.' And as for 'Tiny,' I'm afraid he and Cash had a _pequena disputa_. Unfortunately, it didn't end in his favor."

Kicking off her heels, she ascended the steps and seated herself at the edge of the small pool, hiking her dress up to slide her feet into the heated water. She moaned appreciatively, "_Mas excelente._"

Dante's gaze turned to the imposing man who stood at the foot of the stairs, hands clasped in front of him. Licking his lips, he turned his attention back to the woman who was invading his pool and snarled, "_Puta_, you better explain why the fuck your feet are in my pool before I cut them off."

"Right, right. However, first, a drink to fortify me for this business," she declared grandly, swiping the bottle of wine from the girl to her side.

"You sure about that, boss babe? You're already partially inebriated," Cash advised.

"Cashy, what did I tell you about your big words when I'm buzzed?" she sing-songed as she uncapped the bottle.

He rolled his eyes and sighed, "Something in that bizarre portmanteau of Italian, Spanish, and English you consistently spout off that I can't entirely comprehend."

"You're doing it again," she scolded before tossing the bottle back, gulping it down as though it were the last drink she would ever have. Rage was evident on Dante's face and he surged through the water, drawing back a fist as he advanced upon her. He was abruptly halted by a punctuated roar and warm liquid splattered onto his face as the girls accompanying him shrieked. Pain ripped through his arm and he dropped it, clutching at the bullet hole torn clean through it as his gaze turned to Cash, his heavy gun still raised.

"Conduct yourself in a more befitting manner, Mr. Jiminez. You make another move like that towards the boss babe, and I'll plug a whole new orifice into your head," he warned.

Alondra scrunched up her nose at him and gave a short chuckle, "'Orifice?' _En serio_?"

"It's a sweet word," he huffed.

"_Lo que sea, _Cash," she rolled her eyes before taking another drink and glancing to the girls, horrified at the blood that had sprayed upon them. "Run along, _chicas_. The adults need to talk now."

They hurriedly abandoned the Jacuzzi as Dante grimaced, sinking into the water as he tried to stave off the bleeding. Water splashed out on the floor and their feet slapped against it as they raced to the door.

"_Aspettare!_"

At Alondra's command, they stopped and turned to her, fear in their eyes as she regarded them before glancing to her comrade, "Cash, either of the _chicas_ strike your fancy? Care to pal around a bit?"

"Not tonight, boss babe," he answered simply, not bothering to look either of them over.

She shrugged, "All right. Go ahead."

They eagerly obeyed, pausing only long enough to grab their piles of clothes, which they merely pressed to their bodies instead of bothering to put them on. With their departure, Alondra swung her icy gaze to the wounded man and pointed a finger at him.

"You are a _brutto pezzo di lavoro_. Two weeks ago, I sent my boys to you with a _proposizione_. And you sent them back – with a bullet in their heads," she said.

"You! You're that chick they've been talking about. The one who's been cutting out the organs of the folks who owe you. Aren't they calling you the Vulture or something stupid like that?" he growled between ragged panting.

"Guilty," she laughed, "I figured instead of breaking the knuckles of some _peredor_ who still won't pay, why not take something worth our money? With a little bit of interest, of course."

"Sick fuck," he snapped.

A low growl thrummed from Cash's throat as he brought the gun up again though Alondra waved him away as she grinned at Dante, "Careful, _chico_. _Signor_ Cash can be a bit touchy. Especially when he isn't feeling too well. Now about my boys-"

"Your 'boys' said I needed to start paying you a 15% cut of all my profits."

"A generous offer," she nodded.

He scoffed, "_Puta_, I overcharge and _I_ think that that's a ridiculous demand."

With a sigh, she drew her dress up further, revealing a dark, frilly thigh band that held a small revolver that she pulled out before fully hopping into the water. Her dress floated along the surface of the water, rippling along with the turbulent surface as she advanced on the wounded man. Breathing heavy but even breaths, he glowered at her until she suddenly shoved the muzzle of her pistol into the wound. She smiled vindictively as he snarled and tried to wrench away from her, with little success.

"Listen well, _carbon_. I'm going to run this town. Anybody who wants a piece of it has to pay up. One way or another. And since you didn't accept the first offer, we've got a new one."

"What's that?" he managed.

His response was the heavy base of the wine bottle connecting with his temple, sentencing him into unconsciousness. Alondra caught him before he slipped into the water, grunting as she took on the extra weight.

"_Querido Dios_. This guy's like a sack of bricks. Cash, give _una bella signora_ a hand," she directed.

"Got'cha, boss bab-Ah!"

She whirled at his shout, splashing through the water as he crumpled on the stairs, a massive hand clawing at his chest. Lights flared, some of the bulbs bursting, while every appliance and gadget suddenly sprang to life. There was the grinding roar of the blender, gouts of flame leapt from the stove, and the massive, flatscreen television cycled rapidly through channels. Throwing herself over the jacuzzi's edge, her wet dress slapping against the ground as she kneeled beside him, slender fingers wrapping around his shoulder as she tried to support him. Shudders wracked his body and he gasped for breath and his face contorted in pain. He tried to speak, to form even the simplest of words, but the spasms overtook him, refusing him the opportunity while Alondra tried to put him at ease.

"Heyheyheyheyheyheyhey," she hushed, helping him into a more comfortable position. "What's wrong?"

"Heart's . . . going . . ." he choked out.

"_Que_? We put a new one in you, like, a month ago. Why so soon?" she asked, frantic.

"Fuck . . . if I . . . know . . ."

Snorting at his remark, she reached inside his jacket's pocket for her phone, holding down the first button until it began to ring. When the line finally picked up, she tried to keep herself from screaming, "Get up here, now!"

"Wha-? Boss, I-"

"_Vieni qui, o ti intagliare io stess aprire!_" she howled before getting a tighter rein of her emotions, and forcing out through grit teeth, "_Signor_ Corvin, if you do not get yourself and my _Cargone Uccelli_ up here in the next minute, you will find yourselves on the table, giving up your organs for Cash. And when I say 'find,' I really mean 'find.' You'll be awake the whole time."

"Moving, boss," he assured her, and she could hear the small squad's boots on the stairs through the phone. Without offering any farewell, she snapped her device shut just as Cash's back arched and the cell in her hand suddenly transformed into a small insect-like robot that snapped at her. With a growl, she chucked it fiercely at the wall, causing it to smash to pieces. They clattered upon the floor where they vibrated before reassembling into a shambling creature that hissed at her before scurrying away.

"That's four phones you owe me now, Cash," she teased, trying to lighten the mood as much for herself as him. There was a the briefest clatter as a squad of men and women in dark garb entered the room, light body armor offering them as much protection as it could without hampering their movement. Their faces were obscured by facsimiles of medieval plague doctor masks, their lenses glowing an eerie crimson. Steel talon, markedly similar to scalpels, tipped their fingers and they wore heavy pouch belts about their waists. Several of them carried plastic coolers and as they came into view of their mistress, they moved with military efficiency and speed, congregating about the fallen bodyguard. Marked with a straight back, a swagger in his walk, and scalpels strapped to almost every conceivable place of his armor, Mr. Corvin led the grisly flock, the murder.

"What do you need us to do?" he asked.

One of the lights above them popped, showering them with the glass of the bulb and darkness. The glow of the Birds' eyes intensified, their night vision activating, focusing upon the crime lord who rose to her feet and delivered her commands imperiously, "Somebody gather up _Signor_ Jiminez there. The rest of you, get Cash. Get both of them back to the hotel and fix Cash. His heart is going out."

"Is he safe to move by van?" one of the Birds wondered.

"No," she shook her head, "I doubt anything bigger than a cell is _sicuro_. His powers are going _loco_, and affecting all machines. Now, _prisa! Muevete antes de que se termina!_"

At her words, they leapt into motion, moving with the sort of alacrity that would leave most teams envious and within seconds, they had all cleared from the room, leaving Alondra in the half-lit aerie. Sighing and running a hand through her dark hair, she stalked across the floor, her sopping dress dragging behind her. Pausing before the great windows, she stared out across the city, lit by the street lights, clubs, and occasional glow from a home. Thousands of people who had once fled the city like rats from a sinking ship had returned at the start of the restoration projects. New life was breathed into the former carcass of the city and as she looked out upon it, considering the thought, a slow smile came to her face.

"All the more to feed on."

* * *

"Sanders!"

The shout made the disgraced surgeon jump, nearly dropping his clipboard, as he turned to face the slender woman who had plucked him from his fall from prestige. While his initial evaluation of the young woman had been mostly influenced by his considerable libido, he had since lost any such attraction to the terrifying mobster. Gulping, he prepared himself for the promise of wrath in her very features as she approached swiftly, having changed from her soaked dress.

"_E sciocco! Dove diavolo e 'Cash? Abbiamo bisogno di passare fuori-_"

"Miss Arnetti, please," he held his hands up, "I have absolutely no clue as to what you're saying."

She growled, her brow furrowing before she snarled, "Hurry up and change out Cash's heart before I give him yours!"

"As I've explained before, ma'am, we don't have matching blood types. So please stop making that threat," he requested.

The cold steel of her pistol was suddenly pressed under his jaw and her breath was on his face as she hissed, "Where. Is. Cash."

He grimaced and licked his lips, trying to moisten them as the rest of his mouth went dry. He rubbed his sweaty palm against his pants and finally admitted, "W-we were too late. I don't know what happened, maybe he took on some additional stress, but his heart gave out earlier than we had predicted."

"Doctor, you better be about to say what I think you're about to say. I'd rather not have to clean your brains off my new dress," she menaced.

"We put him in the stasis pod. I have to warn you though, we haven't actually had a chance to test it out. It's a theory."

"But if you're right, it'll stop his body from decaying long enough for you to find some other way to stop it?"

He nodded hastily, "We should be able to, yes."

"Good," she nodded, relaxing her iron cast grip upon his jacket and lowering the gun though her gaze was still harsh as they fixed on him again, "Where's that two-bit _teppista_? _Dov'e il cadaver di respirazione?_"

"Who?"

"_Signore_ Jiminez," she growled.

"Upstairs in the primary operating room. I was about to head up there," he explained.

She paused, lowering her firearm and stepping away from him, considering his words before an unsettling smile adorned her face and she declared, "Don't bother. I'll attend to him myself."

"Miss-"

There was a bang and he screamed as the bullet blasted through his leg, crashing through his tibia. He dropped to the floor, clutching at the wound as Alondra stood over him, tutting softly and tapping the pistol to her cheek.

"I don't think you're in any condition to be operating, _medico_. You might want to have a doctor look at that. The _Carogne Uccelli_ are starting to circle."

He looked up, through the tears of pain, at the dark outfitted figures with their beaked masks and red eyes, scalpels glinting in the dim lights of the hotel. They perched upon the stairs or seemed to materialize from the shadows on the ground floor, their talons clinking together anxiously. Unblinking eyes regarding him callously, devoid of human emotion as though he was already a corpse or something less than that. As his breathing grew harsher and wheezy, soft footsteps descended on the stair and he looked upon the broad frame of Corvin with abject terror. Alondra met him midway on the central stairs and he halted for her as she delivered her commands, "Have one of the Birds fetch me some more suitable attire. I don't want to ruin this dress just yet. I'm going to work over our dear _Signore _Jiminez."

"Keeping the skill sharp, ma'am?"

"And the knife dull for that _cerdo_," she hissed.

"And Dr. Sanders?" he nodded to the downed man.

She glanced back, jutting her bottom lip out as she considered the options before decreeing, "Get him patched up, mend the bone the best you can. As long as Cash lives, so does he."

"As you command, ma'am," he nodded as she continued her ascent. A pair of the dark garbed crew swooped from the shadows to seize the injured man, hauling him to his feet and to another operating room.

Alondra moved with deadly intent, her gaze set as she stalked the halls, the attendants and other members of her organization quickly removed themselves from her path. During the early days, one of her number had impeded her while she was on the warpath. Two weeks later, his heart was going into a highly successful safecracker who had a distinct over-fondness for double cheeseburgers. Since then, nobody who particularly treasured their organs and their wellbeing dared to even block her view. Occasionally a new upstart to the organization would make an attempt at proving they could not be cowed, and Alondra would prove otherwise before adding their organs to the impressive cache.

She shed the dark dress as she entered the primary operating room, kicking off her feels, and gasping at the chill of the floor. Drawing in a deep breath, she proceeded further into the room where Dante lay, sans clothes, and bound at the wrists and ankles to a metal table. Halting his struggle for an instant, he gave a wolf whistle at the sight of her and chuckled appreciatively.

"Came to your senses, _chica_? Trying to apologize now, huh?"

"You troubled my Cash. Stressed him out. And now? Now he's stuck in a pod, kept alive by IV's," she said as she approached. Hazel eyes drifted away from his persistent leer, towards the set of scalpels and other medical tools arrayed on the small table at her side. The door opened and one of the Birds strode in, tenderly cradling a swath of deep crimson cloth that she presented to her mistress who gave a small smile at the old dress.

"Yes, that'll do nicely. _Muy bonito_," she appraised the article, taking it from the girl. Like most of her garments, it was a long dress with thin shoulder straps that crossed between her shoulder blades and a flattering tightness to her figure that was evident as she slipped it on. It paled as it trailed down her body to becoming white at the hem though the color was inconsistent throughout its styling. She smoothed it out, shooed the Bird away, and turned back to her 'patient,' her features brighter now. Reaching to the table, she picked up one of the scalpels and leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table.

"This dress, _usted sabe_, was white once upon a time," she mused, tracing along the bottom of his ribcage with the blade, causing Dante to gasp and hiss. "Back when I was starting out, there weren't a lot of us. I had to operate from time to time, and while I may have studied the medical arts, I'm hardly a _masestro_ of it. I'll admit, _Soy desordenado._"

Her smile disappeared and her eyes focused as she suddenly applied pressure, biting into and through skin and muscle. Dante screamed as she began to slice into him, carving a line down his abdomen and then echoing the curve of his ribs, creating panels. She paused for a moment, studying her nails before sighing.

"And I just got my nails done. Oh well."

Her fingers jabbed into the seam, a smile unfurling across her face as she tore him open, summoning a howl of pain and agony that only fed her hungry grin.

* * *

The organs were all sorted, placed in the plastic coolers, and taken away by the attendants who eyed the carnage uneasily. One of them had brought her a bottle of wine and she chugged it with admirable ado, unbothered by the mess she had left on the table. She had worked Dante over, pausing only to ensure that he was not about to pass out and miss all of what she had in store for him. His release had not come until she had cracked open his chest, like a lobster's shell, and cut his heart out. Liquid gloves matching the fresh hue of her dress reached all the way to her elbows and decorated her face like some sort of tribal war paint.

The light above her suddenly flickered and as she glanced up, a buzzing voice intruded upon her solitude. At first, its comment was indistinguishable but the words began to clear and soon she could hear it.

". . . zzzzAlondrazz . . . zzAlondrazzz . . . Alondrazz . . ."

She groaned, rubbing her forehead into her hand, "_Forse ho avuto un po 'troppo_."

"Zzzzzpeak the mutual tongue-tongue-tongue . . ."

Frowning now, she glanced around and called out, "I swear, if somebody's making a joke, I'm going to make what I did to this _testa di cazzo_ look like child's play!"

The room was plunged into darkness aside from brief sparks of electricity that arced over the machinery of the room as they trembled. She stood as the devices began to draw closer together, shaking as though overtaken by spasms. Electricity leapt between them, growing more fervent as they drew closer and the pieces began to shift, metal bending and tearing as they rearranged themselves. Wires linked them together and the lights suddenly intensified, forcing Alondra to shield her gaze against it until the harsh lights finally soften. Blinking as her gaze readjusted, she squinted at the new figure occupying the room, a humanoid constructed from the random machinery of the room. It marveled at its form, examining its hand and three digits as though perplexed by them before turning its attention to the rest of its form. Suddenly, it lifted its gaze to meet the eyes of the gaping crime lord, a sort of smile forming on its face.

"Salutations, boss babe. I trust that being bereft of me did not cause you too much trouble."

She gave a slow, sincere smile that lacked its characteristic viciousness as she stalked around the operating table. Her hand reached out to trace the metal face, the optics lit a bright blue that darted to her fingers as she stroked his 'cheek,' leaving behind a bloody trail. Mechanical fingers rose to wipe away a tear that was forming in her eye and she shut her eyes at the touch, breathing in deeply.

"You owe me another cell phone, Cash."

* * *

**And thus ends the origin of The Vulture and Cash. We hope you all enjoyed reading it, you scant few, as much as we enjoyed writing it. Next time we're on here, it'll be a different origin.**

**These are our characters. Do not use.**

**Please review.**


	5. Hellbent

She had appeared with only the briefest of warnings, the sudden displacement of air and a sickeningly sweet smell. When he had turned, he had only the briefest of glimpses of a short, skinny girl in bib overalls with frenzied orange hair. Then she had been crashing into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders with disproportionate strength as she smashed her lips against his. His fingers had gone for the gun in his waistband, but she had laughed and then skipped away, blowing him a kiss and wink before disappearing with even less warning than her appearance. Even after she was gone, her scent lingered as he stood there, trying to make some sense of what had just happened before entirely giving up on it and turning back on his progress down the sidewalk.

As he stormed through the slums, her smell clung to him, and he initially blamed it for the growing headaches as he trooped towards the hovel his parents had decided to make home. He gave the girl no further thought, numb to the strangeness of it after seeing the daily news reports on some individual who had created a tsunami merely by thinking about it, or turned everybody in a diner into glass. Every day, more and more Prometheans* were crawling out of the woodwork, only adding to the chaos of the dark city.

Screams, gunshots, and sobs poured from the adjacent alleys and the crumbling, cramped apartments. People were dying mere yards away, murdered by another or by their own volition. But there would be no police. There never were; not in Midtown. Law enforcement was a joke, and a bad one at that, only earning the faintest of snickers and mostly from the simpletons, the fools who could find humor in the simplest of things. Gangs ran 'Madtown,' as its less-than-upright citizens had so quaintly nicknamed their cesspool of a city, and any officer who wasn't on the take was mere moments away from a close casket funeral.

As he entered the apartment building, he had to pause, placing a hand on the banister to steady himself as the sensation of molten metal poured through his veins. The pressure in his head felt as though it was going to crack his skull to escape and he nearly buckled, held upright only by his crushing grip on the newel post. Spots swam before his vision and discordant sirens shrieked in his ears. Leaden weight possessed his limbs as he fought to progress up the cracked and stained stairs. A slender hand pressed to his spine, its cool touch offering a brief respite from the inferno that consumed his interior, and he snapped his crystal blue gaze towards the sloppily dressed pro, obviously having just completed a transaction, who had stopped to help him.

"Are you all right, sweetheart?" she asked, and he marveled at the sincerity of the voice, the softness in her too-young eyes.

"Am I dead yet?" he grumbled.

"No," she assured him.

"Pity."

Grabbing the banister, he hauled himself upwards, leaving behind the confused and mildly affronted girl to return to her place on the street, attempting to entice passerbys. He dragged himself up the six flights of stairs and down the hallway to the battered door that he took a moment to rest against as the hammering in his skull became sharper, more pointed. It was like serrated knives tearing into his brain only to be savagely ripped back out, and he pressed his palms against his temples as he slowly sank to the floor. A sheen of sweat covered his skin and made his simple white shirt cling to his body as his organs strained to tear from his body, away from the pain and fire that consumed him. As though the stabbing into his head had released some stopper, thoughts now flooded his mind, causing the pressure to rise again. Every sort of concept, idea, and theory he had ever heard washed from even the smallest of convolution of his brain and his vision became clouded with numbers that at first seemed jumbled but quickly organized into long equations that had once made even less sense to him than the previous jumble. Now it was painstakingly obvious and his gaze flitted amongst them, lips racing as they recited the formerly aggravating expressions.

They soon faded, along with the worst of the headache and he staggered to his feet and turned to the door, wrenching the knob and shouldering into it, forcing it open. Stumbling into the cluttered portmanteau of kitchen, entry hall, and dining room, he was greeted with a rough grumble.

"And where the Hell you been, boy?"

His father was a thin, scruffy man with prominent veins that popped out even further when he was angered, and who rarely dressed himself in anything other than his sturdy work clothes, complete with dirt crusted boots. Seated at the rickety card table that sufficed as their dining place with the paper spread in front of him, he glared at his only son who lingered by the door. At the counter was the boy's mother, perched beside the boiling soup pot set on the gas stove as she diced vegetables and leveled her own disapproving stare.

The youth's cold eyes slid from one to the other, and he, once again, failed to feel any of the innate connection he was supposed to have for his progenitors. Focusing on his father, he answered, "Busy. Unsurprisingly, the Street Kings are too stupid to do anything without the proper guidance."

"I thought I told you to stop running with those thugs," his elder growled.

"I'm don't run _with_ them. I _run_ them. Straight into the meat grinder," he gave a small, almost drunken chuckle that had his father rocketing out of his folding chair, sending it toppling as his veins bulged and the mousy woman gave a jump, cutting herself with her knife. The boots crashed against the floor, shedding their crusted layers of dirt, as the tall, stringy man quickly closed the distance and smashed his bony knuckles against the teenager's face. His head turned with the force of the strike but he offered no other inclination of feeling the blow, his eyes clear and focused on the floor. Angered by the lack of reaction, his father drew back his fist again.

Everything seemed to slow again as the number swam before his vision but this time they weren't as random. It was the speed of the fist inching towards him, the torque of his father's body, the distance between him and the table, the temperature of the boiling water on the stove, deduced by the ferocity of the bubbling. And suddenly it all became clear. He shifted his weight and the fist brushed past the crimson hood of his jacket. Continuing into a spin, he placed a hand on the back of his father's neck and compounded their momentum, driving his elder into the rickety doorknob. The first blow served to daze him, make him more malleable for the following several blows that shunted him into oblivion before his limp body was tossed to the floor.

The back of his head caught the edge of the frail chair, sending it arcing and spinning wildly over the table. As the boy's mother, her mouth open in horror began to reach for the phone, the leg of the chair slipped into the handle of the soup pot, and the twist and momentum emptied the steaming water onto the homely woman. She fell to her knees, screaming as her skin transformed into a vibrant red, and she wiped at her eyes as her son calmly strode to the table and launched a powerful kick to its edge, correctly placed so that the table slid instead of turning into its side. It slammed into the side of her head with force to drive the side of her head into the knob on the stove, which with a sickening crunch, followed by her silence. Now empty, the soup pot rolled to the boy's feet and he scooped down to pick it up, grasping both handles before smashing it down into his father's face, destroying the bones that made up his face and ensuring he would never wake again.

Left in the hush and carnage of his calculations, he let the pot clatter to the floor, closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and reveled in the peace. All too soon, the tranquility was shattered by a wail, which would have put a banshee to shame, filled the air, cutting from the baby's room. He grit his teeth as the headaches returned and when he opened his eyes, he found the heavy knife that his mother had been using in the vegetables was now in his hand. Regarding it for a moment, his fingers tightened about the handle as the cry rose in pitch again and his gaze focused. Lurching down the hall, he sang softly, "Hush, little baby, don't say a word . . . I'm gonna kill this whole damn world . . ."

* * *

He paid no heed to the sticky blood that coated his arms and drenched his once white shirt as he loaded the dufflebag he had dragged out from under his bed. Beside him was the knife drawer from the kitchen, mostly empty now as he completed the transfer. Several guns had been added to the growing arsenal, along with a sizable store of ammo. As he added the last of the knives to the bag, he reached back under his bed and pulled out the bulletproof vest he had obtained, along with the kneepads and elbow pads back when his parents had tried to encourage his habit of skateboarding. As he dragged them out, one of the straps hooked on an old Halloween mask, tugging it along.

He paused, staring at the devious smirk of the Devil. It was carved from wood and fitted with straps to secure it to one's head, an anachronism amongst the rubber and latex masks of modern times. Small horns jutted from the forehead, and fangs filled the wicked smile. Slowly, he reached down, picking it from the ground and then pulled the straps over his head. He took a second to adjust it before tossing the armor into the bag and zipping it shut. Standing, he strode to the kitchen where the snake-like hiss of the gas persisted, the flame off. Rigged next to the stove was a strange set-up of fishing line, a poised strike-anywhere match, and an old-fashioned kitchen timer that was steadily counting down. Not bothering to give the cooling corpses a glance, he headed out the door, pulling up his hood and zipping his jacket as he did so.

Striding calmly down the halls and clattering down the stairs, he soon emerged out onto the street, where a breathy voice asked from the shadows before she even glimpsed his face, "Hey, handsome, you looking for a good time?"

There was a thundering boom above them and fire roared from the apartment building, the force of the explosion blasting a few bricks from their place. The girl, who could not have been any older than him, only had an instant to look up before one of the tumbling block eclipsed her temple and her body crumbled, all tension in her muscles gone. Blood began to pool about her head, matting and staining her blond hair as he stared dispassionately at the new corpse.

Beneath the smiling mask, he responded to her inquiry.

"I already found it."

* * *

***Prometheans: organisms infected with the Prometheus Strain, a virus intended to accelerate evolution. Prometheans are stronger, faster, tougher, and heal quicker than humans, and most possess abnormal powers, and sometimes physiologies, that sets them apart from the rest of the population. Initially, it was only believed that humans could contract the Strain, but there have been recent appearances of animals and even a few plants that have become infected**

**Our characters. Don't use.**

**Until then, please review!**


	6. Trash

Men in dark suits and body armor swarmed the quaint cul-de-sac, shiny combat boots smacking against the pavement as they moved into position. Children peered from behind blinds and curtain, at least until their parents pulled them away, at the figures whose faces were obscured by the frightening gas masks. Their equipment was marked with a simplistic lighthouse, contained in a sphere with its beam shining across the dark, turbulent waters. Looking slightly inadequate amongst the heavily armed, ominous agents who had arrived in fortified vehicles that were treads and a cannon barrel short of being tanks, were a pair of beat cops beside their squad car. They were positioned in front of a house that bore no obvious differences from its neighbors aside from the black ring now encircling it.

Amongst the threateningly garbed strike force was a broad woman boasting ruby red curls loosely contained by a black scrunchy. She wore a dark pantsuit and shiny obsidian loafers that clicked against the ground as she approached the police officers. There was a green cast to their pallor and she wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell of vomit that invaded her nostrils. Shoving down her own bile at the rotten stench, she demanded, in a rougher tone than she intended, "Which of you called us in?"

"That'd be me. Who are you?" retorted the elder and less obviously shaken of the pair, still defending his territory.

In a practiced motion, she drew the ID from within her jacket and presented it to him, "Agent Sherri Caldwell. I'm with Lighthouse. Now would you care to explain why you called in an entire strike team for what appears to be a simple extraction?"

"This is a pretty quiet beat," he shrugged, obviously reluctant. "About an hour ago, a neighbor called in what they thought sounded like a domestic dispute. We came over and checked it out, but nobody answered. We heard yelling, so we entered, and then-"

The door was suddenly thrown open and a dark-haired man stormed from the two-story structure, whitened knuckles clenched about a wiry child who bawled and reached for the house with a blood caked hand. A tempest raged across the man's face while a flood poured from the boy's, tears and mucus running together and soaking his carrier's shirt. All watched the spectacle as the man reached the end of the walk and savagely cast the youth into the street, revealing the crimson stains on both their clothes. Guns rattled at the howl of the boy who clutched at his newly skinned elbow and began to crawl towards his father who yelled, "There! There you go. Take the monster and toss him in the biggest hole you got. Go on. Take him."

"Daddy! No!" shrieked his son, scrambling to his feet.

The man stepped back, drawing up his fist and causing the youth to flinch before the redheaded agent interceded, introducing herself in an attempt to prevent the situation from escalating.

"Sir, I'm Agent Caldwell of the Lighthouse Agency."

He glared at her, lowering his fist as he seethed, "I don't really care who the fuck you are, just get that . . . that thing out of here."

"I'm sorry! Daddy, please! I'm sorry!" cried the boy from behind the agent. The black-garbed strike team withdrew from their positions, congregating in the front of the house. Agent Caldwell regarded the child with glimmering, forest green eyes and light brown hair that rose in tiny tufts all over his head. She looked back to the man in front of her and accused, "This is your son."

Folding his arms over his chest, he scoffed, "Not anymore."

"I'll be a good boy! I promise! Please!"

Signaling for the nearest member of the team to approach, she instructed, "Try to calm him down. I'm going to work out things on this end."

"Yes, ma'am," he nodded before kneeling next to the boy and sliding his mask up. He offered a reassuring smile at the boy who wiped at his nose, smearing the bodily fluids across his face, "Hey, kiddo. The grown-ups need to have a little chat. How about you come and check out our trucks, huh? I bet we have some armor that'll fit you like a glove."

Mute aside from the occasional sob and hiccup, the child could only nod, but the armored man's smile grew regardless as he returned the gesture, "Awesome. Here, follow me."

He guided the boy, a gloved hand gently resting on his shoulder. As the interval between father and constantly backwards glancing son grew, the former heaved an immense sigh, his tension abandoning him. He pinched the bridge of his nose as fatigue and sorrow claimed dominion of his expression. Giving him a moment to collect himself, Agent Caldwell then requested, "Can you explain to me what happened here?"

Running a hand through his mid-length hair, he drew a breath in through his nose and began, "Yeah, I . . . sure. My wife is – _was_ a Promethean. Basic super strength. I knew this before we even started dating. And when we did start she'd sometimes, you know, forget how strong she is, and I'd end up with the occasional bruise or dislocated shoulder. Little things. And it wasn't a big deal. But that . . . _kid._ He pulled a damn tree out of the ground, and I mean a full tree, to play fetch with a dog. He doesn't have a fucking clue as to how strong he is. And when he – when he -"

He broke off for a moment, struggling with his next words as his anger bubbled forth, a buffer against the rising anguish. Finally, he snarled, "That _freak_ killed her. He killed my Darcy! So get rid of it. Lock it away or whatever it is you do with the other things you catch. Just get it away from me."

Fighting to keep her own voice level as his comment sparked her fury, Agent Caldwell ground out, "You can't just abandon your son like that over this accident. I know that you're angry now, but -"

"'Accident?'" he snapped, "You want to call this an accident? Like some fender bender? A fucking baseball through the window?"

"I misspoke," she acknowledged begrudgingly, "But that doesn't change -"

Again he interrupted her, "You're Lighthouse, right? You guys find the dangerous Prometheans and you put them somewhere where they can't hurt others. Well, that thing not only hurt someone – it killed someone. So it's your problem now. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go clean _pieces_ of my wife off the kitchen floor."

Agent Caldwell could offer no further comment but as the man turned and headed back towards, a scream tore through the air from behind them.

"Daddy, wait! Don't weave me!"

They turned to see the boy leap from the truck and begin to race towards his father only for one of the men to grab the child. He paused, his face transforming into a scowl as he roared, "Lemme go!"

Tiny hands made contact with the man's leg and suddenly he was flying through the air, crashing into and through a house before dragging a furrow in the ground and halting. Safeties clicked to 'fire,' but the boy, eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring, stomped upon the ground with a single foot, generating a seismic wave that knocked everybody off their feet and set off all the alarms in the neighborhood. Small fingers wrapped about the bumper of the large truck, denting the armor without any apparent effort, and he began to drag it after him as he approached.

"I'm staying wiff daddy," he declared resolutely. "We're going to wake up mommy and pway 'Chutes and Wadders.' So just . . . go away!"

His statement was punctuated by the child hurling the vehicle into the sky where it seemed to take flight before descending back towards the Earth, too far away to be heard. Agent Caldwell collected herself and stood up, holding a hand out to the child, as she soothed him, "Sweetie, you need to settle down. We don't want to hurt you, and we know you didn't mean it, but you hurt somebody."

"It was an accident!" he bellowed, his eyes starting to moisten again. "I said I'm sorry!"

"I know, I know, sweetie," she said, inching towards him, "I know you didn't mean to, but that's why you have to come with us. We're going to help you so that you don't have anymore accidents. All right?"

"But I wanna stay wiff daddy," he whined, tears starting to roll down his cheeks. Close enough to him now, she dabbed at them with her sleeve and then stroked his head, slowly calming him.

"Your daddy isn't feeling too well right now. He's – he's not going to be able to see you for a while," she winced, forcing herself to say it.

His breath hitched and his brow furrowed as he declared loudly, "But I want my daddy!"

There was a soft whistling sound before a trio of darts suddenly buried themselves in the child's neck, causing him to yelp in pain. He reached for them, but his eyes turned cloudy and unfocused as the potent serum was delivered to his system. His stance became uneasy and he began to wobble before he toppled backwards though Agent Caldwell managed to catch him, cradling him in her arms as her glare whipped about to the only member still perched in a tree.

"Wyatts!" she barked, "I was calming him down."

"Different vantage points, boss," he answered over the comm., his voice dispassionate as he lowered his weapon.

There was a sudden slam and they glanced to see the door of the house was now closed. Agent Caldwell scowled and handed the boy to one of the other agents before rising to her feet. She glared at the door with an intensity that could have set it aflame before sighing and directing the team to pile in to the two remaining trucks. She grumbled, "Let's get the boy back to HQ. I really don't want to be in confined quarters when he wakes up from his nap."

* * *

**Hope you all enjoyed this. Tugged at the heartstrings a little bit.**

**Our characters. Don't use.**

**Please review.**


	7. Trash - Part II

Patel Badesha's bare feet slapped against the wet floor surrounding the pool, breaking the first of the rules painted on the wall, and her ebony braid fluttered behind her. Within the water, the other children and teenagers in the Lighthouse Agency program splashed happily at each other. Their instructors watched on carefully, vigilant for the abuse of powers or excess horseplay, but were otherwise indulgent of the youths who were excited about the break from their typical lessons of control and more contemporary. The young girl was no exception, and in her enthusiasm, she failed to note the pool noodle lying on the ground until it was suddenly stealing her footing. She blinked as she toppled over backwards, but she never hit the ground, instead feeling long fingers pressed against the small of her back and lifting her into the air.

"No running," rumbled the baritone voice, disrupted by the occasional squeak to embarrassingly remind everyone that he was still going through puberty. The boy who had once screamed for his dad as he threw about armored trucks like they were toys had grown was now tall and gawky teenager who struggled to fit into his rapidly-growing body. Soft brown hair still leapt from his head in erratic tufts that he attempted to control by keeping his hair short. Even as he held the similarly aged girl, who was admittedly just slightly over half his mass, aloft with only his fingers upon her back, he showed no strain in his broad shoulders or muscled arm. The atypical physical features of somebody his age in conjunction with his somber maturity led to numerous misunderstandings regarding his age, and even amongst the elders, he held a place of seniority as the longest residing, juvenile member of the Lighthouse Agency. She met his leaf green eyes and gave an apologetic chuckle as he righted her, never lifting from his seat upon the bench against the wall.

"Sorry, Hector," she apologized as he stretched to pick up the noodle, setting it beside him on the bench. She tilted her head curiously and wondered, "What are you doing over here?"

"Watching," Hector Ward offered in lieu of an actual answer.

"Ooh, sounds fun. I wanna join," she smirked as she plopped onto his other side, pressing close to share the moisture she had gathered from her swim.

"Close enough," he muttered though whether it was in response to her teasing or sudden proximity, she was unsure. Regardless, she didn't bother shifting away from him and he didn't even take note of her healthy weight leaning against him aside from the sensations it produced.

"I get that you're going for the whole brusque and badass thing, but can I get a response longer than three syllables?" she smiled sweetly, voice dripping honey.

"You keep bugging me, Pat, and I'll toss you in the pool. And we both know that if I want to, you aren't going to be able to stop me," he complied, giving her a small grin.

"There you go! Now was that so hard?"

"All right, in you go."

"Wait, wait, wait!" she protested, fighting back laughter as he lifted her over his head without any sort of preamble. "I'll stop, I'll stop!"

Giving a moment of consideration to her words, he shrugged, "I don't know. For some reason, I'm just not buying it."

She grabbed his wrist, stabilizing herself in the grip he was scared to tighten and protested, "I'll be good, I promise!"

"Fine," he sighed, "I believe you."

As she was returned to her seat, she released an exaggerated breath and socked the larger boy in the arm as he snickered at her.

"If you messed up my braid, you're putting it back in place," she threatened.

"Bah," he scoffed, slouching back against the bench. "I noticed that the snipers aren't after you today."

"It's not a sniper's dot. It's called a bindi," she corrected. "And I didn't want it getting washed away by the water. Though while we're on the subject, it looks like Alyx is scoping you out again."

His green eyes lifted as towards the abruptly turning away girl drifting by herself in a corner of the shallow end, most of her face submerged and her dark hair massing in the water. Patel's golden eyes sparkled as her friend groaned, "Yeah. I managed to not run screaming from her presence the other week when she was really pouring out the terror vibes."

"How'd you manage that?"

"I'm just that good," he rubbed his knuckles against his sternum, clearly smug.

"Or all that meditation stuff you do is paying off."

"Self-control exercises making you nigh-immune to fear? Seems a bit far-fetched, don't you think?"

"Right," she scoffed, leaning forward to set her elbows on her knees. "Because a girl who can heal people with a mere touch and a boy who could juggle aircraft carriers are so much more believable."

"You know compared to some of the other powers out there, those seem pretty basic. Every day, more and more Prometheans are being born with more awesome powers," he pointed out with obvious excitement.

"You've been reading too many comics," she noted sourly, setting her chin in her palms.

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with that."

"We're not having this conversation again."

"Because you know I'm right."

"Anyway," she interjected, " Why aren't you swimming with everybody else?"

"I'd end up trashing somebody," he grumbled, abruptly turning surly and causing her to roll her eyes.

"Then I'll just patch them up," she snapped, "So quit moping and come have fun with the rest of us. Or at least come side with me in the splash war. I'm getting massacred."

"And, suddenly, it all becomes clear with the reveal of her true intentions," he chuckled, earning another punch in his muscular arm, which had the same negligible effect as before, from the shorter girl. She pouted and crossed her arms over her chest as her large friend continued chortling. Finally, he sighed, clapped his hands on his knees, and stood, scooping up Patel in a swift movement and springing into the air. He grinned as they sailed close to the ceiling, his captive flinging her arms around his neck as she shrieked, drawing the attention of everybody. Before any telekinetics or similarly powered individuals could stop their descent, the pair splashed into the deep end, sending up a spray that reached for the ceiling. Bubbles foamed about him and he grinned as she kicked out of his arms. With a slight twitch of his toes, he propelled himself towards the surface, nearly shooting out of it before he bobbed in time with his treading. Removing his shirt, he lobbed it back towards the bench before swinging his arms through the water, creating a man-powered wave pool.

The other occupants were caught in the motion, releasing whooping cries or shouts of surprise at the sudden surge that crashed against the far wall, flooding the floor. As his peers at the Lighthouse Agency turned towards him and their instructors frowned, starting to close in about the pool, the splash war began in earnest. Hector created rain showers, smashing his fists into the pool to send the water about him shooting skyward. His friends in the shallow end retaliated in turn and while none could muster the same force behind his assault, they had greater versatility. He found himself assaulted by sudden deluges dropped from telekinetic bubbles over his head, his vision blocked by a boy who coalesced the water moisture in the air into fog, or the find of a sudden weight on his shoulders as a teleporter appeared behind him, trying to dunk him. When he found Hector immovable, he would pop back to his side of the pool and gather his comrades to assist him, collecting more after each failure.

Eventually the instructors reigned in the youths and the water that had splashed out was shunted back in as they called it to be time for the races, dragging the lines into the water to create the lanes. As Hector clambered from the pool, a light body slammed against him, trying to push him back into the water, but only bringing a grin to his face as he looked down into the golden glare.

"Jerk," Patel spat. "You were supposed to side _with_ me."

"Oh, come on. That would've been totally unfair. We would've wiped the floor with them!" he shouted the last part loud enough for a number of his friends to hear. They answered with a chorus of boisterous challenges or scoffs of dismissal at his assertion as he climbed the rest of the way out of his water.

"I'm not arguing that," she grumbled as she stepped back and he shook out his limbs, sending droplets of water scattering about. "I'm just saying would it really have been so bad if we had done so?"

"Eh," he shrugged before heading back towards the bench and picking up his soaked shirt from where it had slipped onto the floor. As he hung it on the back of the bench, he turned to sit and was once again subjected to Patel's disapproving stare. He flopped back, accidentally bending the back of the metal seat, and demanded, "What now?"

"Come take part in the races. You were complaining about how you couldn't interact cause you'd 'trash' somebody? Well, you don't have to worry about that here. Besides, there's a bag of gummy fish as a prize, and you owe me."

"For what?"

"That jump you did."

". . . Okay. Yeah, I could see that. All right then, one bag of gummy fish coming right up."

He pushed himself to his feet once again and shuffled with a quickness that just barely kept him in the guidelines of the 'No Running' rule as he hustled over to the crowd who were entering themselves in the race.

Moments later he found himself posed on one of the diving blocks, the tips of his fingers touching the white plastic as his toes curled about the edge. The onlookers were already hollering for their favored champions, urging them to victory and he took the minute as the timers made their way to the other end of the pool to glance to either side of him. He internalized a groan as he caught sight of Erika, a marginally older Promethean girl who could breathe just as well in water as out of it. A self-assured smile graced her lips and she sent a wink towards Hector when she caught sight of his gaze. Whipping his head forward, he bunched his legs slightly and set his sight on the far end of the pool. The buzzer sounded and he shot forward with enough force that it tore his diving block from the ground and sent it careening into the wall behind him. Powered by his jump, he rocketed through the water, one arm outstretched as he felt that his victory was assured. He saw the rapidly approaching wall and his next sensation was near overwhelming pain as the water suddenly turned a cloudy crimson.

Spectators looked on in horror at the blood spreading through the pool and the mangled wreck of the arm that had smashed into the wall. Bone tore from his skin and as he stood, he stared at it dumbly for a moment, seemingly confused before the pain signals finally reached his brain. As instructors dashed forward, ignoring the rules they had set up, a bellow that shook the metal beams overhead rose from his mouth.

* * *

Hector rested in the medical wing, hazy from the medication, with a heavy metallic cast, past evidence assured them that he could break the plaster one's without thinking, encasing the limb that the resident doctors had somehow managed to fix. The television in the corner played a show that he could only make out in jumbled words with a mess of colors through the fog in his mind, and his eyes drifted lazily about the lonely room. After his incident, pool actives had been summarily cancelled and in the hours following his release from the emergency room, visitors had been fairly steady as his friends arrived to check up on him. Even Alyx had made an appearance, albeit on her own, fidgeting anxiously as she tried to say something before simply leaving behind the fluttery, pink flower she had purchased and darting away. More often than not, he was asleep when the guests came and was only aware of their presence by the steadily growing pile of 'Get Well' cards.

Turning his head restlessly, he suddenly found that the chair next to his bed was occupied. Patel had understandably changed from her swimsuit into a simple white shirt and jeans, and her bindi was evident even if she hung her head. Her features were contorted with grief and her nails were stabbing into pale with enough force that he wondered for a second as to how she hadn't drawn blood yet. She bit at her lip and closed her eyes before offering a mantra in a language that Hector didn't understand though whether because of the mental fog or it being a language actually other than English, he was unsure. His cast clanged against the rail along the bed and her head snapped up as he stirred.

"'Sup?" he croaked as he levered himself up.

Tears brimmed in her eyes and she buried her face in her hands as sobs wracked her shoulders, bewildering the youth who scoured the room for something that could get her to stop when her voice broke through.

"I-it's m-m-my f-fault. I-I t-told you to e-e-enter that stupid r-race, a-and look a-a-a-at what happened," she sputtered, raising her eyes again and he realized that this wasn't her first breakdown since the incident. Before he could attempt to console her, she continued, "A-a-and I-I s-sh-shoulda healed you th-there, b-b-but I couldn't! All I c-could do was s-s-stand th-there! Useless!"

As she snarled at herself, he shifted his shoulder and managed to swing his cast over the edge. Reaching down, he captured one of her hands, applying minimal pressure to avoid hurting her even in his weakened state, and interrupted, "Stop that. I got hurt by my own stupidity. If you can't accept that, I'll . . . well, whatever pain-killers they've got me on makes it hard to be creative. So just stop blaming yourself."

"I should've healed you," she protested before staring at the strong fingers gripping her own. Reversing the hold, she pressed her lips to his palm and he squirmed slightly at the sensation that he likened to ants crawling through his limb. Fortunately it was over in a second and Patel sat up, finally smiling as she released a happy sigh.

"There. All better."

He arched a brow as he lifted the arm, curling his fingers as the last of the tingling feelings dissipated before suddenly clenching the muscles in his forearm, ripping through the metal without effort. Setting it aside as to not attract attention of anybody making their rounds, he studied the network of scars where his bones had splintered through his skin. Gingerly testing the limb, he smiled as no pain suddenly roared through his nerves or anything worse happened and he gave a short laugh as he swung his arm to scoop Patel into the cot, pressing an excited kiss to her cheek as she flushed. She attempted to squirm out of his grasp but quickly recognized the futility of her quest and merely settled against his shoulder, watching with a soft smile as he continued to test out his healed limb.

"I swear, I could kiss you on the sniper spot if I weren't so scared that I'd swallow it!" he exalted.

"Let's avoid that," she agreed before giving a soft gasp and wriggling from the arm he had wrapped about her. He frowned as she leaned over the edge, next to the seat she'd been inhabiting, and he prevented her from slipping over with a finger against her heel.

"What are you doing now?"

"Gummy fish," she announced as she pulled herself back up, lifting the family-sized bag of candy with her. She struggled with the bag, attempting to rip it open and Hector rolled his eyes.

"Suddenly, the reason I wasn't immediately healed is truly revealed. Somebody was using the confusion to snag the treat."

"Don't make me hit you," she threatened as the bag suddenly tore open, showering the pair of them with the fish that leapt from the opening. Hector shook with laughter as he tried to respond.

"You – ha – you c-cant hit – hahah – me. I'm – he – I'm injured," he argued. "I _really_ wish I could – eheh – come up with something witty about fish right now."

"Oh, shut up," she grumbled as she flopped back against him and plugged his mouth with one of the gummy fish plucked from the sheets.

It was well beyond visiting hours and curfew when one of the nurses who staffed the medical wing peered into the room to find their patient without his cast and nuzzling a short girl curled up in his arms, both of them showered with gummy fish. Her first instinct was to wake and separate them, but she was stopped by a third figure occupying a chair in the corner who pressed her finger to her lips. She nodded and ducked from the room, and Sherri Caldwell waited a moment longer before standing and moving quietly to the side of the bed. She sighed contentedly as she stared down at the young pair, softly brushing Hector's forehead until he began to stir. He settled after she retracted her hand and his grip about Patel became slightly more possessive yet even in his sleep, he refrained from any sort of force that would harm her. The Lighthouse Agent began to collect the scattered gummy fish, sliding the largely emptied bag from the girl's fingers. After she had completed the task and set it amongst the cards and flower, she leaned down to press a short kiss to the forehead of the boy she had been watching over for the past decade.

"Sorry I wasn't there today, Hector. But it looks like you managed without me."

* * *

**The boy from the last chapter has been named. And maimed.**

**Even if we put them through horrific ordeals, they are our characters. Ira has a belt sander and other assorted nastiness for those who steal them. Not that there are enough readers for this story to bother menacing.**

**Enjoy and review!**


	8. Zeke

**Zeke**

* * *

**Age 8**

Ezekiel Rutherford had known, from the moment he had laid eyes on the squealing form of his baby sister, his purpose in life.

He was to be a protector.

Stocky with unnaturally crimson skin hidden by jeans, workman gloves, and a baggy hooded jacket, the young Promethean had stood at his mother's bedside, peering at the small bundle she cradled and cooed to, tired but content. At first glance, the boy had been relieved to find that his sister, Katrina as their mother had affectionately dubbed her, bore no tell-tale signs of being a Promethean. Then her eyes had blinked open and he found himself staring into white irises swimming in black sclera, mirrors of his own. She watched him curiously and gurgled at him before his mother asked if he wanted to hold her. His gaze had turned frantic and he had tried to protest it with a furious shake of his bald head, but then he had found the child resting in his large hands, looking up at him with large eyes.

Her fragility had marveled him, and he had to wonder, as she peered about curiously while nestled in his palm, as to whether he had ever been that small. She made weak movements with arms only slightly thicker than his fingers, bouncing excitedly in her new perch. A chuckle had escaped his lips and she had turned suddenly, fixing upon him as an uneasy smile split his broad face. Babbling at him for a moment with a solemn expression, she had then tucked into his chest, searching for food. He had flushed and quickly returned her to their mother, who had laughed before shifting her shirt to sate the infant's hunger.

His visits to the world outside of the sturdy walls of the family cabin and the dense forest surrounding it were, in a kind term, infrequent, and it was only his mother's cajoling and wheedling that he had been permitted to bear witness to his little sister's first hours on Earth. Even then, his father was loath to allow his boy to roam around and had confined him to the hospital room, making no attempt at what awaited Ezekiel should he disobey. They boy had cringed as much from the threat as the near overpowering stench of beer rolling from his elder's throat. Since he had been led in, his hood up and his head pushed to stare at the floor as he was tugged through the hallways, he had not left the sanitary room, ducking into the bathroom when visitors or any of the medical personnel peered in.

The booming laugh caused him to flinch and he glanced towards the door, outside of which his father talked with visitors and well-wishers. Ezekiel's stomach churned and his gaze slid to the frail child, affirming what he knew to be his duty.

* * *

**Age 12**

Katrina shrieked and wrung her shirt between her hands as her father's knuckles cracked across her brother's face. The former's nostrils flared as his dark eyes fixed on her and she began to wail, but before he could advance her brother stumbled to his feet between them. He mixed the metallic blood that was filling with his mouth with saliva and expertly hocked a glob of the solution into the garbage can by the door. Curling his fingers into fists, his nails bit into his palms, and he stared defiantly at the man above him, forcing his attention back towards him.

He told himself that it didn't hurt as he was cast to the floor. That his father didn't mean the rain of 'monster' and 'freak,' regularly interspersed with a variety of epithets that were punctuated by kicks that would have broken his ribs had he been a baseline human. Attempting to curl up his body to earn some defense, he peered through his fingers at his mother emerging from the bathroom and dragging Katrina to safety, ensuring that his sacrifice was not made in vain. Once his sister was secured, he finally let the tears escape, curling further into himself and waiting for his father to tire. As Ezekiel continually refused to offer a reaction, his father stormed to the door, hammering on it and screaming for his wife to emerge.

When his assault upon the door proved fruitless, he hurled an almost creative insult and stomped to the door, tearing the keys from the hook on the wall. A minute later, the truck rumbled to life and its wheels crunched over the gravel, and the house fell silent. Ezekiel waited another moment before trying to move, suppressing a cry as he reached out with a beefy arm, thick fingers finding purchase in the floorboards as he dragged himself forward. It excited his forming bruises and he bit into his busted lip, pushing that pain to the forefront in an attempt to eclipse the others. Upon reaching the kitchen table, he used it for support, staggering to his feet. Pulling a chair out, he slumped into the seat as the strength of his legs gave out and he groaned as his back pressed against the spokes. After a moment of ragged breathing, he reached out to pull the garbage can in front of him, and spat out the blood that had pooled in his mouth again. His vision swam and he clutched at the sides, accidentally splintering the plastic. He clenched his eyes shut, at least the one that wasn't already swelled shut, against both the rising nausea and the knowledge that it would earn him another beating.

There was a click as the bathroom door opened and Katrina raced to him, her feet pattering against the floor as she screamed his name and threw her arms about his abdomen. He winced as she pressed against his bruises, but patted her head before stroking her hair reassuringly, attempting to placate the sobbing child. As she clung to his body, he lifted his gaze to see his mother leaning against the doorframe, ashamedly averting her eyes to the floor. Frowning, he watched her for a moment longer before wincing and lifting Katrina into his lap, rocking her until she stopped crying.

* * *

**Age 17**

He tucked his hands into the pockets of his thin jacket, giving a rare smile as he watched Katrina frolic through the snow. Periodically, he would swoop down to form a snowball and lob it at her before it turned to slush. She would turn and howl at him, forming her own sloppy snowballs that she pelted him with, and he shouldered them gracefully, breaking his typical silence with a small chuckle. It had been far too long since he had seen her toothy grin or heard her laugh. Since their mother had abandoned them to their father only a few years ago, moments between the beatings were largely filled by terse silences. They capitalized upon the times when their elder was at work or just as commonly drowning his problems in booze or a conflux of other vices.

Pulling his hands from his pockets, he crouched to collect his next projectile, but found Katrina missing when he lifted his head. Frowning, he glanced about, growing increasingly frantic when he couldn't find her when a heavy load of snow landed atop him. He whirled about to see his giggling sister crouched upon the porch roof, the space in front of her devoid of snow. She beamed at him before leaping towards him and he brought up his hands to catch her only for her body to shift into a cloud of acrid green gas. The gas whirled downward, swirling about him for a minute and he winced at the scent before it coalesced back into the form of his little sister, her arms wrapped about his thick neck as chortled. Shaking his head but smiling, he reached back to pluck her from his back and tossed her into the air, catching her as she descended.

Repeating the process several more times, he paused to roll her in the snow, using her as the basis for a gigantic snowball despite her vocal protests. She managed to wriggle free and raced away from, throwing clumps of snow at him as he chased after her, growling playfully in his throat. Another sound emerged from the forest and he halted, glancing about suspiciously and giving a sharp whistle to bring Katrina to heel. He narrowed his gaze as he peered into the pines surrounding their home, straining his ears before he heard the distant crunch of snow. Turning to Katrina, he nodded his head towards the cabin and fear darted across her features before she darted inside. Glancing at the snow they had trampled through, he gave a grunt in his throat before loping inside.

He shed his jacket and gloves before hurriedly mopping up the snowmelt left behind by his sister as well as his own. His father's truck pulled up, rumbling for a moment before falling silent as the mop was returned to its proper position. Glancing about the room, he winced as he caught sight of Katrina's boots haphazardly kicked off beside the couch. Shifting his eyes towards the door, he bit his lip before shooting forward to collect them. As he gathered them up, the door opened and he stiffened as his father stumbled in, muttering to himself. Reddened eyes snapped towards him and he averted his gaze, hurriedly collecting the boots and rushing them to the closet and as unobtrusively as he could.

As the door creaked open, he could feel his father's eyes upon him and he forced his breathing to calm as he tucked the footwear beside his utilitarian, black pair that easily dwarfed them. Straightening slowly, he gave a sudden jump when he heard a door slam and he whirled to see that the door to what was once his parents' bedroom, but was now his father's alone, was now closed. His brow furrowed for an instant when another creak echoed through the house and his head snapped to Katrina, peering worriedly out. Wrinkling his nose, he nodded to her and she ducked back inside her room, pressing the door closed softly. He hesitated after her disappearance before moving cautiously to his father's door and leaning his ear in to listen.

Surprise filled him as he recognized plaintive sobs tearing from the normally harsh man's throat, broken by cries and gasps of what he recognized to be his mother's name. Wavering for a second outside the door, knuckles raised to rap against the wood, he clenched his eyes shut and instead pushed through the front door. Emerging onto the porch, he set his feet one the bottom of the short arrangement of steps and lowered himself with a tired sigh. Night was falling swiftly, and with it the temperature, but even as the degrees plummeted, he found himself unbothered by the cold. He had first noted it several years back that he could walk through the fiercest of storms without much more than a shirt and pair of shorts and while useful, he was a little put off that he was left with such a basic ability while his sister could turn herself into some sort of gas.

Turning his gaze to the night sky, he searched the stars for the pictures his mother had taught him in one of the more memorable lessons that they had shared. She had even managed to obtain a telescope, basic as it was, from a friend in town, and had looked between the papers she'd printed out and him as she guided him in a tour reaching beyond their tiny world. Katrina had still been a baby and his father at work, leaving the two of them to marvel at the inky heavens before the wails of the former had drawn her away. As he looked upon the sky once again, he wondered when she had decided that she would abandon them. Had it been a long dreamt plan born from the first blow when she failed to produce a baseline human heir or it had been more spontaneous, such as when she found that no amount of makeup could hide the accumulated bruises? Why had she left him, or more importantly Katrina, behind? Where was she now? Was she happier without them?

He tore his inverted eyes away from the floating diamonds that only seemed to ignite more questions, threatening to drown him in unanswerable ponderings. Staring at his heavy, crimson hands that marked him as something more, or maybe less, than human, he stood. Casting a final glance towards the sky and bidding an unvoiced goodnight to the large moon, he returned to the interior of their house and treaded softly to Katrina's room. Wincing at the screech of the hinges as he eased her door open, he saw her nestled deep in the covers, bathed in the soft light of the fairy nightlight, the final gift before their mother's disappearance. She stirred slightly but did not awake and he smiled softly before closing her room and glancing towards his own before creeping to his father's realm. No sounds emerged from behind the wooden barrier and he steadied his breathing before gathering the courage to slip inside.

Red and puffy-eyed, his father was sprawled across his bed, still in his attire from the day but sleeping soundly. Hesitating for a second, he approached the bed and cast the blanket over his elder to ward off the cold before leaving to retire for the night.

* * *

**Age 18**

He should have killed him.

Blood stings his one eye, dripping from his split brow and he's fairly certain, even without looking at it, that his arm is broken as it refuses to answer to his demands, leaving him to receive yet another boot to his sternum. The insults and denouncements are old by now, having lost much of their bite, and even the physical pain is typical enough that he more catalogues it instead of actually experiencing it.

It doesn't change the fact that Ezekiel Rutherford believes that he should have smothered his father when he had the chance. He should have wrapped his large hands around the man's neck and watched his eyes bulge as he scrabbled about, trying to regain breath. He should have lit his room on fire with him locked inside. He should have grabbed a knife from the kitchen and cut out the man's shriveled heart.

At some point during his delusions, he thinks that it's somewhere between the fifth and seventh rib he hears crack, the beating ceases. Blows no longer rain down on him and even if his ears are still ringing, he can tell that the angry voice is no longer ranting at him. Forcing his head to turn, he pries his good eye open and angles to see Katrina standing there, staring defiantly up at their father as he looms over her. Her eyes, like his own, are hard to read but he recognizes the bravado is a veil only thinly cloaking her abject terror. It's more evident in the tiny tremors seizing her hands, becoming more prominent with each step the taller man takes towards her. Clenching his teeth together, Ezekiel threw his body forward inching forward and dragging red streaks along the floorboards.

Tears start to form in Katrina's eyes and her entire body quakes, but she stands her ground. He tries to reach her, pleads for his body to let him do as he must and shield her, but it refuses his command. Heat fills him, building rapidly as his father's hand rises into the air and he opens his mouth to release scream.

Except his world is suddenly white and without sound, even the ringing of his ears gone.

His first thought is that he is dead, and his second is how is he supposed to protect Katrina like that. Then the pain returns, assuring him that he is oh-so-very-much alive. Managing to roll over, he struggles to his knees and then somehow stands, looking about the white world with a soft but warm ground. He looks about, finding the realm to be without horizon or obvious division between ground and air, its entirety a sterile white warmer than he has ever felt. There's a distant rumbling though as his hearing returns, it grows louder until it no longer sounds as though far away, and begins quieting soon after. The white fades away and he finds himself standing in a desolate landscape filled with ash, some of which is spiraling from the sky, believing themselves to be snowflakes. One lands on his cheek, imparting its warmth and he brushes at it as he glances about at the now eerily silent realm.

In the distance, there remains a scattering of charred trees, divested of any greenery but still standing, and even further remains the foliage outside the blast radius. Ash fills the sky and silences the earth, obscuring any further sights, and he begins to frantically search the stone platform he find himself standing on. His eyes sweep the area before he freezes and begins to tremble. Several feet before him, there is a dark, humanoid shape, a shadow with its arm raised for a blow that never lands, burnt into the very ground. Tears gather in his eyes as he drops to the ground, his entire body overtaken by violent shakes and his breathing growing ragged. He shakes his head, trying to reject the reality behind him, but the ash collects on his broad shoulders, his clothes vaporized. A thick, heavy fluid fills his throat and he coughs into his hand, gazing at the blood that nearly matches its hue as his tears sizzle and evaporate before he lifts his face to the sky and screams.

And a town, which had never given a thought to nuclear explosions beyond their involvement in World War II, suddenly finds itself bearing witness to its second mushroom cloud in a matter of minutes.

* * *

**So, slight break from Trash's story. Sorry that this guy doesn't have a cool name like most superheroes or villains, but he just never feels the need for one.**

**Anyway, don't steal or Ira will break your limbs, joint by joint. The usual threats. But please do review. We would appreciate it greatly. Thanks.**


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